Ultimate Angst
by FlitShadowflame
Summary: Someone's having problems...vignette series of newsies in pain. The connective tissue is thin, if it exists at all. COMPLETE
1. I Wonder, How Long?

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be broken by the unimaginable stress of my façade of indifference. I can never be weak in front of the newsies. Because if I ever cracked, I could never face them again.  
  
I wonder if I'll ever go crazy from the pain. Every night I go home to my father, and he beats the shit out of me until I cry and cry and cry, and no one hears. No one comes to me and says, "It'll be over soon-it'll be alright soon."  
  
I wonder how long it will take before I break down and sob my heart out in front of them. I wonder how long it will take me to collapse from pain when someone accidentally touches my back, reopening wounds from my dad's belt and cane. He doesn't always just whip me with his leather belt, sometimes he throws in some hits from that accursed cane of his.  
  
I wonder when the newsies will notice the blood on my back, the scars and bruises that are renewed each night. I wonder when I'll be tempted into swimming, and I wonder when they'll tease me for not taking off my shirt. I wonder when they'll figure out how alone I am; how hard it is to do what I do every day and come home to Him every night.  
  
I wonder how long it will take them to get suspicious that I don't come to the lodging house to sleep at night, showing up instead very early in the morning and sleeping then. How long will it take for them to second-guess my orphan story?  
  
I wonder when they'll realize how much pain I go through. I wonder how many of them will understand, and pity me-which I cannot stand-and how many won't get it and ostracize me-call me weak, challenge my abilities. I could not stand through that either. And I wonder how many will ignore the naked, ugly truth and treat me the same but inwardly shudder every time they see me, watching and waiting for me to cry out that I can't take it anymore.  
  
How long until they abandon me because I let this go on?  
  
How long until my newsies stop trusting my ability to fight?  
  
How long until they realize the great Spot Conlon, Master of Brooklyn, is still getting whipped by his father? 


	2. I Cannot Stand

THANK YOU, MY FANTASTIC REVIEWERS!  
  
Ok, I know I said this was going to be a one-shot, mostly for shock value. But I've decided, why the hell shouldn't I make it a series? All the newsies have dirty little secrets, and after a while, I might do a real story with their unhappy little lives.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't even own myself anymore. See, I played poker with Spot, and then.  
  
*****  
  
I can't stand this life.  
  
Everyone asking about my family, who they are and where they are now.  
  
I can't stand the lies.  
  
For the longest time, everything that anyone knew about my history was a lie. Lies about my parents, lies about my childhood. Lies to cover up the existence of my brother. His history was one big lie, too. We just couldn't let anyone know. Because we hate our lives.  
  
I can't stand my mother.  
  
She abandoned us, my brother and father and me. She was the smart one. I wish she had taking us with her. The least she could have done was save us from our father.  
  
And sweet Jesus, I cannot STAND my father.  
  
He made the most lies of all of us. He lied about being married-no, my paternal twin brother and I were illegitimate. He lied about us even existing-his co-workers, when he had them, thought he had no children. I can't even tell you how many times he lied about being sober.  
  
I can't stand being famous.  
  
People come up to me in the street and ask if I am who they think I am. I joke about it, but every night I cry to myself that it should be my just ten minute younger brother getting this attention. It should be Jake. I did it all for him. I can't stand attention.  
  
I can't stand watching my brother starve.  
  
He's slowly wasting away. I can tell by the way his overalls get looser and looser each day. He never seems to eat. The others haven't noticed yet.  
  
I can't stand watching my brother cut himself.  
  
He doesn't do it on his wrists-customers might notice. He cuts on the lines of his palms, so they blend in and go unnoticed unless you look closely.  
  
God, I hate watching my brother destroy himself.  
  
I hate having to stand by and watch as my BROTHER wastes away.  
  
And I utterly despise being myself, notorious thief and strike leader, wanted by his father the Warden Snyder for being the type of illegal activity that can lose him his job.  
  
I hate being Francis Sullivan. 


	3. Because I Am Different

Every day, they look at me. It doesn't matter who. I see their sideways glances and I hang my head in shame.  
  
Because I am different, I am condemned.  
  
I can't buy more that fifty papes and expect to sell them without crying and pleading and lying something fierce.  
  
Because I am different, I am ostracized.  
  
When I walk up to someone, they avert their eyes from mine when they say hello. When I was a child I cried in the night because I thought everyone hated me.  
  
Because I am different, I am ignored.  
  
I can't talk to girls. Because whenever I say anything, they look at my face and see that I'm not as handsome as the guy next to me-usually it's Mush, my best friend, my muscled, ladies' man of a friend. I love Mush- platonically-but sometimes I wish he just wasn't so built, or so attractive, or so generally nice.  
  
Because I am different, I have serious problems in my love-life.  
  
When I see my family, walking by my old house on the dingiest Skid Row in the city, I cringe and turn away. I'm ashamed to see them. Because I know they'll give me the same looks everyone else does and they'll say, word for word, "I'm so sorry it had to be you, Michael."  
  
Because I am different, I am unloved by even my family.  
  
I'm being unfair, to Mush especially. He can't help being cute, but somehow I can't bottle my jealousy inside, and every once in a while it bursts out. I know it hurts him when I say things like that. And I know he hates it when I get suicidal-he says they're just girls, and I shouldn't make a big deal of it. He says I'll find the right girl someday.  
  
Because I am different, I have no soul mate.  
  
When I sit up at night, unable to sleep because I'm afraid someone will see what I don't want them to, sometimes I hear Mush crying.  
  
And I want to go to him, but because I am different, I can offer no consolation.  
  
His enemies take different forms from mine. I would not understand. I would be of no help, no use-the way I can help no one with anything.  
  
Because I am different, blind in one eye, mutated at birth, people stare at me in the streets.  
  
Because I am different, blind in one eye, people judge me prematurely.  
  
Because I am different, blind in one eye, they call me Kid Blink. 


	4. This Smile Is So Fake

This Smile is So Fake  
  
My anger rises with every shameful remark I hear. Sometimes I can't hold it back.  
  
This smile is so fake.  
  
They teased me at school, because I wasn't some pale-ass bastard like the rest of them. Noooo, I was a DARK ass bastard.  
  
This smile is SO fake.  
  
They teased me about my hair, too, because it wasn't a normal blond or black or brown or red, it was that funny wiry tawny color. It's not my fault my hair looks so unnatural.  
  
This smile is so fake.  
  
My own family, my mother and stepfathers - all five of them - and my stepsiblings and half-siblings mocked me. They said I was a bastard, a half-breed bastard. What hurts most is that they're right.  
  
This smile is so fucking fake.  
  
Kid Blink is like my brother. I know he has his troubles, and I have mine, and neither of us get to help each other because we don't know what it's like. But we're still like brothers, because he looks out for me and I look out for him. It's like Jack and Spot, or. . . I dunno, Jack and Spot.  
  
Our smiles are so fake.  
  
When we see the newsies, we have to be happy, we have to use our fake smiles and crack jokes and fool around. But once we're out of their sights, we'll be the picture of misery, eyes mournful and dull.  
  
Our smiles are so fake.  
  
I just wish this life was over. I hate this world.  
  
My smile is so fake.  
  
I wish I lived in some faraway time where people don't discriminate against blacks and half-breeds. If such a time and place even exists.  
  
Yeah, right. This smile is so fake.  
  
My mother was white. My father was black. My name is Mush.  
  
My smile is so fake. 


	5. I'm A Loner

Ok, I'm stupid.  I posted the wrong chapter.  Ok, here's the REAL chapter five, "I'm a Loner"

*****

I buy enough to eat and gamble.  I sell my papers alone, every day.

I'm a loner.

I don't have many good friends.  I'm afraid to let anyone too close.

I'm a loner.

It's gambling that got my father in trouble, too.  One day he bet too high, and couldn't pay.

I'm a loner because my father is an idiot.

But my father didn't die before he'd already paid off a few of his debts.  One of them being to a very rich man with no children.

I'm a loner and an orphan, no matter what that bastard says.

My father had run out of money that night, and so the man suggested another way of payoff.

I'm a loner because my father is a fucking retard.

My dad sucked at poker.  He really did.  But he seriously thought he could win this one.  It was double or nothing—he got back twice as much as everything, or he lost everything.

I'm a loner because my father sucks at poker.

You wanna know what my dad lost?

I'm a loner because my father bet his son to regain his salary, and he lost royally.

I can't believe he did that, even today.  He bet his own son!  And he couldn't even play a decent game of poker.  Not like me, but even I'm nothing compared to Spot.  I assume you want to know the name of the guy who now owns me.

I'm a loner because of George Conlon.

Yeah.  Conlon.  Same night he won me (I was only three years old) his wife got pregnant.  So he waited a few years to take me so he could make sure his adorable baby boy, Nicholas, would be safe and ok.  Then when I was seven, he came back to demand my father give me what he had won, fair and square.  My father was out gambling, and the only one home was little seven-year-old me.

I'm a loner because of that night.

I was kidnapped, without care to my feelings or physical condition.  All Mr. Conlon cared about was getting the hell out of there before daddy got home.  He needn't have bothered.  Dad rarely comes back before midnight, and it wasn't even sundown.

I'm a loner because my brother is Spot Conlon.

Spot never asks for help from _anybody.  I'm not going to be shown up by my little brother._

I'm a loner because whenever anyone gets close to me, they're taken away.

It happened with my dad.  I was just starting to forgive him for losing me in a bet, and I was kidnapped.  Then, when I was about thirteen and Spot was ten, he ran away.  I had just started feeling like he was my brother.  And when Alicia Conlon was just starting to treat me as her son, she died from her husband's abuse.

I'm a loner because everyone I truly value dies or endures daily pain.

My adoptive father still beats me, sometimes.  But mostly he's preoccupied with Spot, since Spot lives in Brooklyn, whereas I'm in Manhattan.  He'd be even worse with me if I stayed in Brooklyn.

I'm a loner because if anyone finds out the truth, they'll all laugh.

I know it.  Even the few I consider friends, Kid Blink and Mush, they would look at me and they wouldn't see me as another person, they would see me as a thing, because I was bet and won like just any old pocket watch.  They wouldn't see Racetrack Higgins-Conlon.  They would see a betting chip.

I'm a loner because I'm Racetrack Higgins, and Racetrack Higgins sticks to the races and the jockeys.

*****

Ok, the ending needs work.  But it's another chapter!


	6. A Nameless Face

Watch as this tear falls into empty space  
  
In the dark I cry for a nameless face.  
  
A girl who seemed to fall from grace  
  
This girl on my mind each ever-loving-night  
  
Blurred emotions, lost is sight  
  
Buried in pain, worry, and fright  
  
A single tear is all it takes  
  
Then I mourn for a lover's embrace  
  
And she is gone without a trace  
  
The girl, I never knew her name  
  
Love is cruel to play such a game  
  
She was gone in a fit of flame  
  
A wracking sob has broken free  
  
It shakes my lungs and continues to be  
  
Now the whole lodging house can plainly see  
  
What true love and love gone has done to me  
  
I scream in rage at the wicked game of fate  
  
The devil's hunger for souls no feast can sate  
  
All consumed in fits of unearthly hate  
  
Even as I write  
  
Tears stain this moonlit night  
  
And never again will Dutchy lose sight  
  
For it has come time to end my life.  
  
***  
  
that was the most depressing of all. Don't worry, for future reference, the LH boys stop him before he kills himself. This will probably be the only poem chapter, but the poetic muse might visit again somewhere down the line.  
  
--Chronicles Bailey 


	7. The Voices

"Voices"  
  
As if it wasn't bad enough before. Not only is my life a wreck, my best friend just tried to kill himself. Thank god I was there. Thank god we could stop him.  
  
The voices in my head don't like it when people get unhappy.  
  
I'm empathetic. Literally. When Dutchy started bleeding, I could feel his pain, and it was mine. Ours. Things don't make sense anymore.  
  
The voices in my head don't like this place.  
  
I'm not only empathetic, I'm manic depressive. And I'm schizophrenic. And I'm obsessive compulsive. And I'm suicidal/bi-polar. And I'm all sorts of undocumented shit. I'm screwed up in the head. My parents abandoned me when I started talking about voices no one else could hear. It isn't my fault, they just. . . happened. I don't know why, they started talking to me one day.  
  
The voices in my head don't like it when I talk about them.  
  
It's astonishing. How many crazy people live here. Jake is obviously a masochist, a cutter. I hate watching in the early, predawn hours when I'm usually the only one awake, until he gets up to cut. I can't sleep. I never sleep. I'm also a sleep-insomniac. And I'm a masochist myself. The voices don't come when I'm cutting. It doesn't hurt. It feels good.  
  
The voices in my head only leave when I sleep and when I cut, and I never sleep.  
  
Jake isn't the only one. Dutchy's got blatant suicidal tendencies, so he's probably clinically depressed or just plain suicidal. Maybe bi-polar. Jesus, I have problems.  
  
The voices in my head don't like you.  
  
The newsies came up with the stupidest nickname for me. It doesn't define me. They don't know me. I mean us.  
  
The voices in my head hate it when I forget about them.  
  
My head hurts. The voices are screaming at me. Look, a knife. . . I feel better now. My head hurts a little though. Maybe if I take off my specs. That's what they call me, you know. Specs. Like I said, it doesn't describe me at all.  
  
The voices in my head hate me.  
  
***  
  
I'm beginning to SUCK at endings. Oh well.  
  
--Chronicles 


	8. When I Run

THERE IS NO GOD! STUPID CHAPTER POSTING WRONG DAMMIT I HATE YOU FANFICTION.NET! DIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!  
  
***  
  
"When I Run"  
  
Sometimes when I finish selling my papers, I walk around the city. I don't go anywhere in particular. I explore. Unlike the others, I don't have bad pasts to run into, not here, anyway. I've run too far from home for them to find me.  
  
I feel free when I run.  
  
My father, and I know it's so typical and cliché, used to beat me and give me the hardest manual labor to do. I was a slave, in more ways than one. He whipped me with his riding crop when my work was unsatisfactory or when I displeased the company. I used to run away from the plantation in Virginia, run into the grove of trees nearby and run through the woods. It made me feel free.  
  
I feel free when I run.  
  
My father had company at least once a week. It was usually his perverted, rich friends. Friends who liked having sex with little boys. I was another kind of slaves on those days.  
  
I feel clean when I run.  
  
Those bastards, those twisted fiends! They put their hands all over me, made me do horrible things just for self-gratification. They hit me too; they hurt me and twisted my own mind until I couldn't speak anymore.  
  
I feel so much better when I run.  
  
My mother had run off with a black man who had been our servant since before I was born. My dad called me a bastard and never treated me as a son, but he has no proof. I'm as white as he is, despite looking nothing like him. So I'm still a bastard probably, mother had a history of running away too.  
  
I feel like myself when I run.  
  
I wonder if dad made mother do things against her will too, if that was why she kept running away. Maybe she just didn't like him. She was born into a high-class family here in New York, she grew up drinking champagne on her birthdays. All I remember of the night she left was that it was her birthday. It was her birthday and dad was drunk, again. And when dad gets drunk he does the same things to me as his friends do, and that was what he did to mom that night.  
  
I feel happy when I run.  
  
I don't talk at all anymore. Father finally pushed me over when he whipped me for twelve days straight-hardly sleeping and barely eating. I had kissed the Reverend's daughter.  
  
I feel like a leaf in the breeze when I run.  
  
Damn, that girl was the most beautiful I've ever seen. It was worth maybe four days of that horrible episode, but not nearly worth all twelve! I cried and screamed until my voice was gone, and even as I sobbed without sound, the bastard forced me to perform oral sex on him.  
  
I feel like a rebel when I run.  
  
I refused. Of course I refused; I had endured more than enough from him. I ran and I ran and I never stopped, I couldn't stop. Eventually I found the train yards and hopped an engine headed for New York City, city of dreams.  
  
I feel so incredibly good when I run, it's impossible to describe.  
  
The first days were hell. Then I snagged a few apples and ran like nobody's business. Luckily cops are slow. Unluckily, they're smart. They waited until I hit again, and they were ready this time. They cut me off, threw me in jail. I didn't know someone had been watching both times. Not the police, someone else. Somebody who could help.  
  
I feel so liberated when I run.  
  
This person's name was Jack Kelly. He found my cell and busted me out that very night. He said I was lucky he knew so much about the refuge, or he wouldn't have bothered, no matter how fast I was. Fast? I didn't know what he meant.  
  
I feel so brilliant when I run.  
  
Yeah, fast, he had said. He told me he needed a runner for his newsies in Manhattan. A runner, he explained, was someone who would take messages to the borough leaders. He said he had seen me running and knew instantly I was just the kid for the job. I would sell papers with his crew and run messages if he needed it. I agreed.  
  
I feel so amazing and fast when I run.  
  
In exchange for my services, he gave me a newsie nickname. Swifty.  
  
***  
  
I think it's cute.  
  
--Chronicles Bailey 


	9. I Cannot Run from Fate

"I Cannot Run from Fate"

I cannot run from fate.

I cannot run from destiny.

I was born black.

I have lived black.

I will die black.

I cannot run from fate.

There is no escape.

Running, searching

Hope is gone

And I have no chance

Running from my fate

I cannot run from fate

Already it is too late

I cannot hide from destiny

It comes to take me unwillingly

I do not want to seal my death

But I have no choices left

I cannot run from fate

Birth, life death

Cycles of life

No end to a circle

No escape

No way to hide

I cannot run from fate

I cannot run from death

I cannot hide my identity

My name is Boots MacAleenan

I was born black

I have lived for thirteen years this way

And I will die black

I cannot run from fate


	10. It Doesn't Hurt Anymore

Ok, I misspelled Boots' last name.  Get over it.  I'm too damn lazy to fix it, especially since I think I deleted the Word copy, so there would be problems.  Anywho, next chappie!

*****

It doesn't hurt anymore

When I cut myself to bleed off pain

It doesn't hurt anymore

It started as a sort of game

It doesn't hurt anymore

The other newsies can never tell

It doesn't hurt anymore

I try not to show skin whenever I sell

It doesn't hurt anymore

These marks deep in my skin

It doesn't hurt anymore

A mark for every sin

It doesn't hurt anymore

When I blame myself for all the lies

It doesn't hurt anymore

When part of my soul sits down and dies

It doesn't hurt anymore

When I pierce skin just to see blood

It doesn't hurt anymore

Even though I know it should

It doesn't hurt anymore

When people make fun of my nationality

It doesn't hurt anymore

For Bumlets to face reality

***

AN: I LOVE IT!

--Chronicles Bailey


	11. Tea and Crumpets

A/N: this chapter is almost DEFINITELY not historically accurate.get over it.  
  
***  
  
I'm from England, originally. A stowaway on a cruise ship. My parents were very, very rich-well, my father was. My mother died when I was young, barely six. She left me with no siblings and a very angry father who happened to be the Duke of Buckingham. I ran away often, only to get dragged back by the bobbies-I mean, bulls-and be whipped into submission with my father's riding crop by the man himself. I lived with this until I was fourteen, almost fifteen. Then my father was suddenly nice, so nice it scared me. I didn't know it then, but my great uncle, the King, had intervened when he saw my bleeding back. He didn't believe my father when he said I had been in a riding accident, because few riding accidents cause score marks on the back, so unless I fell on a very thorny bush, it was unlikely I had been riding when I was wounded.  
  
My life has been anything but tea and crumpets.  
  
But when my fifteenth birthday rolled about, my father went back to much of his old self. He hit me again, on my birthday no less, for no good bloody reason. He said something about assurance I would be good at the party. Asshole, he only cared about his standings with the king, which were poor because he hit me.  
  
My life has been anything but tea and crumpets  
  
When the newsies met me, they only noticed my accent, refined and British, so they called me various things. Hoity toity, Toity, Snobby, Money- britches, Moneybags, Snoddy. They stuck with Snoddy at the end.  
  
My life has been anything but tea and crumpets.  
  
***  
  
A/N: for those of you who read my "Snoddy Finally Gets a Fanfiction" fanfiction, this is a parallel. Shit, this kinda gives it away.better put it at the end. 


	12. They Used To

They used to love each other.  
  
I could tell. Mom and dad would hug and kiss each other goodnight, and they would tuck me in with my brothers and sisters. Then a few years ago, my brother was killed in a carriage accident. That's when they started yelling.  
  
They used to love each other.  
  
Mom would scream that dad didn't love her, that he didn't protect her family, his family. Dad would heckle back that she slept around, that he wasn't sure if half the kids were even his. Then they would scream even more, she'd slap him and he'd fume and leave the house, but no matter how drunk or how pissed off, dad never hit women.  
  
They used to love my brothers and sisters.  
  
They would hug us goodnight and say we were the best gift God had ever given. They would take us to church and buy us sweets; they helped us with our homework and kissed us when we got hurt. When Andrew's first girlfriend broke up with him, Mom baked a huge cake and we all took turns telling jokes and making him feel better. When Angela's first boyfriend started hitting her, Mom told her she was breaking up with him and that was final, and if she wanted to skip school the day she did it, that was fine.  
  
They used to love me.  
  
When my first girlfriend said I was ugly and a terrible kisser, my dad said that looks aren't everything. He told me something I will never forget. He said, "Son, as long as you're a good person in your heart, where it counts, it doesn't matter what you look like. You've got a sure ticket to heaven, and you just gotta stay good with the Lord and eventually he'll give back and you'll meet a fine woman."  
  
They used to love me.  
  
When my second girlfriend broke up with me, right around the time they started yelling, my dad had no more words of wisdom. His words were fueled by drunken anger, and no matter how much he might regret saying them later, they stung and kept stinging. My mother baked no more cakes. But it's the pies I miss the most.  
  
They used to bake pies.  
  
I love pies. I don't understand why they're so incredible to me. If I see one, I HAVE to have it. It's gotten me in trouble many times, after I ran away from home. But none of the pies I steal are as good as my mom's home- made, baked to perfection pastries. They're the sweetest thing you've ever tasted. I miss her pies.  
  
It's no wonder the newsies call me Pie Eater.  
  
***  
  
A/N: Isn't it great?  
  
--Chronicles Bailey 


	13. Double Bill, Brother and Brothers

My thirteenth chapter! I want this to be really special, so I'm going to do two at once. Therefore, this chapter will take a pretty long time getting finished and loaded, so I'm sorry for the delay.  
  
***  
  
I sit on my bunk and idly twirl my bowler around. It seems like so long ago that I got this bowler from my brother, who noticed my early attraction to the type of hat. I could never thank him enough for it at the time, I knew it had cost his life savings. I suppose he didn't want to draw attention to his moment of weakness and sacrifice for me, we were both newsies then, and he didn't want to jeopardize any positions he might uphold in later life. So after the first day or so, I just kept to my normal self-only smiling a little more.  
  
Bowlers remind me of the first nice man we ever met. My brother doesn't remember, but he always said I was better than him at that sort of thing. Remembering. Maybe he just /wants/ to forget. He forgets all about our parents sometimes, and I've never seen him happier. But those dreadful nights are never far from my mind. Whether I'm reading the Three Musketeers or the Bible, I find comparisons to my father, comparisons to my mother, and even . . .when I'm mad at him, when I'm rebellious and angry enough . . .comparisons with my brother.  
  
I love him, don't get me wrong. But sometimes he's too protective, too much of a liar. He lies around twenty times a day, on average. Not including when he sells papers, which is rare these days.  
  
My brother lied about our relationship, which shamed me. He denied we were brothers at first. The newsies still don't know anything for sure . . .he told them we were cousins last I recall.  
  
The story seems to change every once in a while, which bothers me. At the very least he could make his stories convincing.  
  
But that's my brother for you, ever the liar, never the poker-faced boy who wins all your money. Like Race.  
  
Were you expecting the Delanceys?  
  
"Hey - Jake."  
  
***  
  
Are you ready for the next one? It's mainly narrated by one guy, but the other narrator comes in by way of asterisks.  
  
***  
  
You've heard about them. Spot Conlon, Jack Kelly, Kid Blink, Mush Meyers, Racetrack Higgins, Dutchy Ivanovitch, Specs Tchaikovsky, Swifty Chao, Boots McAleenan, Bumlets Rodriguez, Snoddy Buckings, Pie Eater Mallory. Jake Sullivan. Now it's our turn. We're fraternal twins, meaning we look nothing alike. Hell, one of us looks like he's twenty five and the other - yours truly - looks like eighteen. We're both seventeen, no matter our appearances.  
  
Probably you've already got gears churning in your head, trying to figure us out. If we aren't already given away. I'm not going to tell you right out, but we aren't that hard to interpret.  
  
My brother and I were born in a low-middle class family. Went to school for a while. Made friends, made enemies. Typical kids in any big city.  
  
Well, we started out in Albany, for one. Not here, not NYC, the city we've grown to both love and loathe.  
  
Our mother and father were religious types, turn the other cheek, the meek shall inherit the earth . . . all of that. They got on to my brother for pride and anger. He's the vengeful sort. I, however, try not to let my feelings aggravate my fists. Besides, mom used to lock us in our rooms for the weekend if we got in fights, only letting us out for food, bodily functions, and church. Always church. Every day, twice Wednesday, and we practically lived there Sunday.  
  
Our friends joked about it - if they couldn't find us, they went to our church and waited until we were set free to drag us off and do something stupid and reckless.  
  
Don't get us wrong. We love church, we really do. We still go four times a week. I'm even in training to be a priest. That's why lying through my teeth hurts, but you have to survive, right?  
  
That's what I'm saying. Survival. No matter what they say about Jesus, Others, Self, it's not true. Most Christians I know, even the Catholics, put themselves before others. It's natural. We can't help it. We're only human.  
  
I'm ranting. Where was I? *You were talking about our family, bro.* Oh yeah. Thanks. *No problem. Get it right, will you?*  
  
Anyway. Our parents were nice enough, like I said. Feed us, clothed us, gave us educations. But one day they found out their money wasn't covering it. So we moved into a smaller apartment. Well . . . I say "we," but I mean to say that . . .  
  
*They couldn't let us come. They shipped us off to New York to work for our father's friend. Jonathan was nice enough for a while. We became newsies. But one day, when a newsboy spit in his face, he went on a rampage. Made us beat up ALL of our newfound friends, none of which did it. John hadn't gotten a good enough look at his assailant to recognize me.*  
  
Well, it was suffice to say we didn't keep a lot of our friends. Eventually, for our own protection, we started helping out our "Uncle." John Wiesel.  
  
*Yeah, we're the Delancey brothers. Wanna make somethin' of it?* 


	14. Going to the Dogs

A/N: I swear to god I had another chapter somewhere. I've misplaced it, or maybe completely lost it to the void of the rapidly disappearing fanfictions. This seems to happen a lot, huh? Well, no matter. I had two written, so I'll post the other when I find it. Here's the other.  
  
***  
  
I was born in a pretty well off family. We were MUCH richer than Denton, but poorer than Pulitzer. My life was good enough. My dad, who is still alive and kicking, is pretty nice to me. A good father. My mother - who is also still living - I visit twice a week. Not just for her, also for my father, but I can't help loving my mama a little more. Call me a mama's boy, I don't care, she was the one who was always around and always said something to make me feel good. Dad worked hard for our family, but I never saw him. I was usually asleep right after dinner, which he was always just on time for.  
  
I didn't leave because we were poor, or because my family was mean to me, or because my dad was a drunk or my mom was a whore. I just couldn't stand the dogs.  
  
These aren't your little lap poodles like the Queen of England always seems to have. These dogs are VICIOUS, and they're huge. I was reared with these giant wolves standing over me. And I HATE them. I'm allergic to them now - I throw up if the dog's taller than my knee. I don't sell papes to people with dogs.  
  
But back to my life before newsiehood. The family dogs were two Dobermans, a racing Greyhound, three Pitbulls, and a mutt. But this isn't the cute, lovable mutt you find in the streets as a half-starved puppy and raise from the big-pawed, pissing wherever it lands stage. No. Not even close. This thing, this BEAST of a canine was half-German Shep half WOLF. Well, maybe it was coyote.  
  
Anyway, my dad works with the horses at Sheepshead, so the dogs are to guard the horses from foul play by other jockeys or their hostlers. Well, I say my dad works with the horses. But he really controls anything and everything equine-related that happens on Coney Island. So we're very rich. Plus our Greyhound is a track favorite when the Sheeps' does dog- races, every Saturday at noon.  
  
I come to all the important horse races still. My dad tells me a date to be there and I'm there, I trust him not to let the dogs near me. I hate those things, have I mentioned that?  
  
My parents understand it. They need the dogs and I can't live with them. You might ask why they don't just sleep at the stable, but obviously you don't know what these dogs are like at night. They'd keep the horses up with their howling and scare them to death. Besides, my dad's so used to them; it would break his heart if they had to sleep outside. Just like if I had to sleep outside.  
  
So I moved to the LH when I decided I could go out on my own. Best thing about the place - no pets. I sell with Race down by the tracks. That was where both of us got our nicknames. His, for betting. Mine, for . . . well, you'll see.  
  
"Hey Joey. Ya need a nickname," Race told me one day while he lounged on a bale of hay, chewing one piece out of need for a cigar. My dad and I were working in the stables with the track favorite, Silver-Shoe, names for one white hoof. My least favorite dog, the mutt, walked right in the barn, barking and snapping.  
  
My dad started yelling at Buck - the mutt - Silver-Shoe neighed, stepped on my foot, and bit me; and finally, I jumped a foot in the air at least, screaming my head off. Race swears it was two feet, and my father insists on a yard.  
  
"You'se mawh skittish den dat ho'ss," Race laughed, patting Buck. The rotten flea-bag's tongue was lolling, his tail was wagging . . . my face burned.  
  
"I HATE dogs."  
  
"He's afraid of them. Especially Buck," my father told him.  
  
"I ain't scared a' dat hairy monstrosity."  
  
"It's ok, son. He's half-wolf, there are grown men afraid of wolves."  
  
"I gotta sell . . . Skittery."  
  
I nearly killed him. But the name stuck. 


	15. New Jersey, Knuckles, and Transient Trai...

I found it! YAY! This was originally chapter fourteen, but it doesn't really matter anymore.  
  
***  
  
Like the Delanceys, I'm not going to tell you straight out who I am. But I'll be pretty easy to guess.  
  
We start off in my personal niche of hell. My home state. New Jersey.  
  
My dad was good enough to me - he just drank. And when he drank, he got depressed. And so he drank more. When he was sober, though, he was pretty nice. Took me to the racetrack, taught me how to play cards, taught me about pride. He told me that I was born for great things.  
  
In Jersey I was like what Spot is to New York. I was infamous. Six feet tall at thirteen, and a street fighter to the core. No one could beat me. No one. Whether it was speed, wits, or strength, I was the undisputed best. Then, when I finally jumped a train to get out of the hellish city I lived in, I spent a night or two happy, just coasting on that train. But some engineer or conductor or something found me where I had stowed away, in the baggage compartment. So I jumped off without looking where I was going.  
  
That one jump, not looking that one time, that ruined the rest of my life. From then on I was cautious. I still packed a punch if my hands were free, but they never were. I had to carry newspapers with a leg shattered into a million pieces. When I dragged myself to the hospital, the doctor swore I'd never walk again - not even with crutches. But slowly, day-by-day I pull closer to recovery. Maybe I'll never be the fastest runner again. Maybe I won't be able to take you out with one kick. But at least I won't be hobbling around on this goddamn CRUTCH forever.  
  
I hate it. It's a weakness, one the Delanceys like to exploit. They beat me into a pulp, kicking that leg again and again. It's their fault I'm not already running. But today's the day. I finally got enough money, from saving five cents a day for over two years, to get back home. I enter the train station. Buy my ticket with a pile of pennies and nickels and the occasional dime. And I get on that train. Homeward bound. Finally.  
  
"Good God, Knuckles?! What happened?" my former second-in-command asked. His name was Ace.  
  
"I jumped off a moving train. My leg's been like this for two years. But I wasn't supposed to live, and I'm living, I wasn't supposed to hobble and I'm hobbling . . . who knows? I'm not supposed to walk. Maybe I'll end up running."  
  
"Where've you been?"  
  
"New York. As a newsboy. The strike, you heard about it? I was there. Spent most of it in jail, but still. Is my dad . . . ?"  
  
"He's worse than ever, but he's still alive. We had ta stop him from killin' himself a lot, y'know, Knuckles?"  
  
"Yeah. Oh, and Ace?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"It's Crutchy now."  
  
***  
  
*dances* I have fifty reviews for this fic!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *celebrates more* 


	16. I Curse the Day

It's late. I'm posting lots on everything. I got here. Now I just need something to write. This is probably the most obvious one yet.  
  
***  
  
People like to think I'm the smart one. I'm the one with the good home- life, who never felt neglected or endangered or hurt or stupid.  
  
No. People are wrong. My family is the biggest lie in the world. My father's arm has been broken for five years. He's a beggar. I've been working in factories since I was ten, with my sister. My little brother was going to start in the winter, but then I saw the newsies. I knew this job was healthier than factory work. It could well pay better, too.  
  
When I brought Jack home, I did a quick triple knock, the signal for company. I heard some shuffling and the clack of knitting needles and the creak of a rocking chair.  
  
There was some spouting of lies, some pleasant family banter. I didn't mean it to make Jack feel like shit, he doesn't know what I come home to. My own father beats me up for booze money, I hide some so we can survive. Sarah's money and skills go to our clothes, Les and my savings are for food and rent. Mother helps Sarah, though she's usually too weepy to do much. Father's state bothers her. Not surprising, really. It bothers most people with souls and compassion.  
  
I curse the day I was born to Mayer and Esther Jacobs. I curse the day I was born David Matthew Jacobs. Because that was when the trouble began. 


	17. Nationalities and the End

Hey everybody! This is the LAST CHAPTER of "Ultimate Angst"  
  
Do you feel the love?  
  
I'm not feelin' the love!  
  
Ok, I'll shut up now.  
  
***  
  
I swear I've been mistaken for almost every nationality there is. Except, naturally, my real one.  
  
I'm mixed, and I admit it. But I've been called Irish, Italian, Cuban, Costa Rican, Mexican, Spanish, the list goes on and on.  
  
Ironically enough, the ONLY countries I haven't been asked if I was from are the African ones. The black ones.  
  
You wouldn't think it would be so hard to tell, would you? Apparently it is. Hell, I've been called a Jap before, and that was weird.  
  
'Course, the guy was Chinese, so maybe he was just trying to insult me.  
  
So you wanna know who I really am?  
  
I'm the son of a half-British, half-Scots-Irish whore by a drunk, married half-Kenyan, half-African-American.  
  
Isn't it just fabulous that we all know our roots?  
  
I was "raised" – if you can call it that – by my frequently absentee mother. When I was nine, one of her "patrons" raped me. I'm sure you've heard this particular sob story before.  
  
My dear sweet mother stood up straight, looked him right in the eye, and demanded that he pay "extra for fucking the little bastard."  
  
Not all her johns wanted me as well, as a matter of fact, it was rare. In the next few years, it only happened two or three times annually.  
  
Finally, after I turned twelve, my mother kicked me out on my ass, screaming for the whole Red Light District to hear about my "nigger" father.  
  
Bitch.  
  
I spent less than two days on the streets before I was picked up by a guy who introduced himself as Bumlets.  
  
He became my selling partner, a nicer guy I've never met. All the guys say it's weird, our friendship – we're total opposites, me, thirteen, him, eighteen. Me, half-black half-white, him, pure-bred Spanish. Me, son of a whore, him, son of a Don. Me, the loudest little shit on the streets, him, the quietest guy you'll ever see.  
  
But we don't care. I owe Bumlets my life six times over, and he owes me at least that much – it's this cute puss that sells the papes, after all.  
  
I guess my "newsie nickname" isn't all that odd.  
  
My mother always did tell me, "You're such a goddamn stupid Snipeshooter, Nicky!"  
  
***  
  
All right. That one was pretty bad.  
  
But HA! IT'S OVER!  
  
*Laughs maniacally and runs around in circles.*  
  
Now then, back to the other fic. 


End file.
